And So it Goes
by Cannibalistic Skittles
Summary: The second year of Illia Rashemi, wildseed witch, bibliophile, introvert – and the biggest threat to the 'status quo' and way of life the magical world has ever had. All she's got to do is convince them that these changes are for the best. Simple, right? No. But when is it ever? And ah, it's so much more fun this way, when they put up a fight. Then she knows she's doing it right.
1. Home Again?

_**May 3rd**_  
_Hello, diary, my lovely friend. How have you been? Safe inside your cage of clothes I don't intend to wear and random things I jammed in my suitcase to make my parents less suspicious about how empty it was?_  
_I hope so, because for the next few weeks, we are going to be _good friends_. Close companions, even. 'Cause diary, you ain't never gonna believe what I'm about to write on you._  
_...shoot, no, first dramatic entry of the season and already I'm littering it with pop culture references that – where did that one even come from? Where did I hear that? I don't even remember._  
_Alright, alright, let's try again._  
_So. First week back. Everything seems – safe. Pleasant, normal, stable, boring. _  
_Also false. _  
_I haven't been able to really go over anything with the 'rents (nope, not using that phrase, tried it, didn't like it, won't keep it) that's of more than marginal importance. Made friends? Discussed. One of said friends plans an immense social reform to integrate the concept of science with magic and the other accidentally-maybe leaked the secret of my magical marriage to the whole rest of the academy? Not discussed._  
_Doing well in school? Discussed. Learned spells that reveal the secrets of the universe? Not._

_And so on and so forth._  
_You see this pattern, diary? This is a disturbing pattern we are seeing here. A disturbing pattern I would not hesitate to break if I wasn't aware that the consequences may include the death or complete memory wiping of them, and of me._  
_Disturbing. Patterns._  
_But you were with me last year, diary, you already know all this junk. Blah de blah de blah, Illi vents, you sit here patiently and let me jab my pen inelegantly into your pages. You know the drill._  
_Secrets. Mysterious secrets. And somehow, that's just not was fun as I thought it would be._  
_This might be a chance to make real progress – I have a few months with them now, instead of just a few weeks. _  
_I'm conflicted. Telling them outright is… no. not an option. I'm not sure how they'd know – the arcane council, Potsdam, I dunno, whoever's in charge – but wouldn't it be just typical if they swooped down the second I confessed everything to my parents? I'm not willing to lose knowledge of this so quickly. Aunt Petrie and Uncle Andrew have spent their whole lives chasing after a hint of what I've got. _  
_And then… how could I let them search in vain, never knowing if they were a step away from a real discovery, or wasting their time on a foolish pursuit?_  
_It's not even so simple as that – and it was frustratingly complicated to begin with. No, not only would I have to find a way to tell them, figure out what to tell them, they would have to believe me. Unconditionally and fully. Any less than that and the risk of exposure would be too great._  
_I would be memory-wiped. I would lose myself. But if I don't tell them, I would lose them. And I can't lose them._

_But I've discussed this extensively, diary._  
_I am a seventeen year old girl, I am semi-educated (which is to say, have been fantastically educated up until this point, and should I continue in this way for the next four plus years, as I plan to do, I will be able to think of myself as sufficiently schooled), I like slushies and snow cones and shorts and capes, I'm much too fond of silly little things, and I am not at all fit for anything of even marginal importance._  
_Now._  
_I am also a witch of no small power (I think, I mean, I have absolutely no real standard to hold myself to), I have been married for matters of grave magnitude, and I am in just the position to bring about changes in both this world I live in, and this new world which begins to exercise it's claim on me._

_Not exactly… the markers of a healthy mind, I guess. Or. Wait, that's not the right phrase. The… ingredients for? It's driving me batty, anyway._

_The first two parts of this – the age and the education – can really only be changed with time. And I thought I'd have time, time enough to wait until my senior year, to wait until I had lived two decades, before I set out to change two hundred decades worth of rules. _  
_But. This is looking to be an error in judgment._

_Anyway._  
_An-y-way._  
_I'm not looking to force something over the summer, so with any luck, I'll be able to vent and ponder in here, and then keep other thoughts of it to the margins. _  
_We'll see._

_I'm not sure I have much to do here. Television? Music? Skating? Slushies? …ooh, slushies. I can make do with that._  
_But seriously, I have all of summer break – way more time than I usually get, and way more than I know what to do with._  
_An_ embarras de choix.

_No, I don't speak French, what's the point of putting it there?_  
_Look, see, diary? Already going stir-crazy enough that I'm trying to write phrases in a language I am obviously not fluent or competent in. _  
_I am going to wander back to the Academy as a brain-dead disgrace._

_Okay, so. Something to occupy me. That shouldn't be too hard, right? I've got an entire library at my disposal (which I've rooted through a thousand times), a town full of people to talk to (who are all quiet and withdrawn and distrustful), trees to climb (which are – okay, those are perfect, not gonna lie)..._  
_Books to read. _  
_Yeah, books. Books are good. Plus, there's probably going to be some problem with the online grading that will take weeks to sort out, and which I won't get done if I wait to the last minute, never mind the fact that they have not informed me of any._

_Alright, that's enough whining for today. Try to get comfortable in your new and... temporary home, I guess._

_-Illia_

She shuts the pages with a small _whumph_, pushing it, and her pencil, under her pillow.  
This done, she flips onto her back, limbs splayed and her still-damp hair fanned out around her as she looks up at the ceiling.  
That's one thing she's not going to miss – communal showers. (In normal circumstances, a near-endless supply of hot water would be enough temptation to stay, but... magic. Magic outweighed most things.)

There was more to it than what she'd written – there always was.  
Her parents had ruffled her hair and smothered her in hugs and called her pet names until she was nearly drowning in affection.  
It's something she _was_ used to, but no longer.

She stares up at the ceiling a moment longer, trying to block out thoughts and just take in the paint-speckled surface.

...huh. She never did do anything about the ceiling back in her room –  
In her _dorm_ room. Not _her_ room. It wasn't hers.

This is a lie.

There, she knows where everything is (even if it's because there's not much to find), she knows everything around her, she knows how it looks and how she's changed things and how she could continue to change things.  
Here… she's forgotten which draws are hers, and there's too much stuff – little toys piled up on the dressers, notes she can't remember reading, or writing, and it's like she's wandered into a sitcom house. Everything's hers and supposed to be hers, but it feels like it's all designed to placate her.

And this, here – this is not home, not any more. Even putting aside the fact that she basically hasn't lived in it for the last three-fourths of a year.

Her parents are basically strangers.

When they – and she doesn't know this 'they', doesn't know who it was that caused her so much trouble – took away her parents' memories of magic, it seems as though their curiosity was taken as well. Everything that made them… them.  
Safer this way, she supposes. If you believe that ignorance really is safer. (And again, after this, after all this, she isn't so sure.)

Ellen had said before... that her parents thought they sent her away because she'd done something wrong, because they couldn't remember the real reasons.

Illia's parents are not the same, but somehow this is – well, it feels worse. They think they sent her to the Academy to find herself. To teach her whatever she needed to know to decide on a path for her life, and that she'll talk to them about what she's learned if she wants to.  
She wishes.

And then she groans, rubbing at her temples.  
She was not made for this sort of soul-searching. And she's had much too much of it recently.  
She is seventeen years old, and she is allowed to act like it.  
She's allowed to be childish and clueless and confused, and -

Well. It's the first day back.  
She has a million exciting things to do and oh gosh laundry.

Right... she managed to get out of doing it before by using small-scale cleaning spells (alright, they're more than that, but it's how she's going to refer to them) and waiting until break, where she'd plead with her mother to do them since she 'didn't know how to do such small loads of laundry' and teaching her at the moment was too much of the hassle.  
She's pretty sure that's not going to wait when she's got all of summer break to learn now.

She hisses a breath through her teeth, then smiles. Oh well. It's not so bad, right? At least she gets to spend time with her parents now.

And this is how she spends the first day.


	2. Dating, and a letter

**_May 4th_**  
_The sun is shining, the grass is green, and I am very bored._  
_Normally, this would be… well, pretty much the same. Idleness does not serve me well._  
_It would usually be a much shorter period, though._  
_The schools I've attended have always had much shorter breaks, and would hover somewhere around two months for the summer. Now… now, I've got four. _  
_Four months to balance._  
_Four months to schedule._  
_Four months to figure out what in the world I'm going to do._  
_And I am going to be absolutely bored to tears._

_And it helped that I actually liked school this year. In previous years, there's always been a few lessons I've been genuinely interested in, and many which are a little bit appealing, but I've usually found the lessons to be geared more towards students in general – to teach everyone a wide yet shallow range of knowledge (and ideally, skills) so everyone knew what they were interested in – or to students in a very specific range, to those who knew right off the bat what they want to _  
_I had never been one of those people._  
_Either, really._  
_I knew I wanted to do..._ something_, and I didn't know what, exactly, that something was, but it felt… different. Different than just drifting around, between ideas._  
_It felt more like I was waiting for something. And this – magic! – how can this not be the thing I was waiting for?_  
_Even if I had something else, something wonderful, I think I'd feel the same. Magic seems to fill the gap._

_Anyway, since I don't show a proper interest in science, or math, or even in art, I think my parents were getting antsy. That's why the mindwipe settled on what it did to replace their memories – a place to help me 'find myself,' so they wouldn't have to worry anymore._  
_And in a way, the Academy was._  
_Not in any of those fake ways like in movies – where the main character's nerdy girlfriend takes off her glasses and shakes out her hair and finds out she's beautiful all along and they count that as 'finding herself.' _  
_…alright, that got a little out of hand, but the point is – Iris Academy has actually helped me in more ways than one. Beyond teaching me that, a), I have magic, b), how to control it, c) how to protect myself with and from it, I was learning something new in class _every day_. It was something different every time, something I hadn't known, and then I would learn spells that would let me put what I learned to use. I could actively see the result of the lessons. I_ understood.

_But. No magic for me._  
_...not on a large scale, anyway, that would just be poorly planned. I'll need to find something else to occupy my time._

_...right. That reminds me. It's as bad a time as any to bring it up (yes, I'm mostly joking, it's really nothing grim), so!_  
_Now, to find a place to start._  
_You know, my dad's always been pretty relaxed on the subject of romance – he knows I'll have to date at some point, knows I'll fall in love at some point, and accepts it, but essentially just pushes it to the back of his mind. So have I._  
_And I had assumed, up until this point, that my mother felt the same. But... she's been dropping hints – no, not subtle ones – that... she wants me to_ date,_ diary._  
_Yeesh. That is not a pleasant topic._

_And. Something else._  
_I am writing a letter._  
_I am writing_ that_ letter._

_Starting this is painful._  
_Writing letters isn't a particularly daunting task, especially since it gives me a chance to organize my thoughts more - carefully arrange what I wanted to say ahead of time, instead of just stumbling over my words._  
_But writing letters to_ him..._ means that not only will I be talking (sort of talking. Talking in writing form. That counts) to someone I_ like_ and_ respect,_ but he'll forever have a transcript of every stupid little slip-up I might make._  
_…will make. And he'll have it if he doesn't dispose of it._

_He_ did_ say he would want to read my letters, and I_ do_ want to hear from him, but what if – what if he didn't mean it? What if he gets my letter and is just reminded how childish and silly I am? (Seem? I don't' know, am I actually childish and silly in comparison to – everyone else?)_  
_What if, what if, what if? There's too many possibilities, a thousand variables, each more nerve-wracking than the last._

_...but I'm going to give myself a little credit and say he won't burn it outright. Maybe if what I write is particularly inane, so. Gotta be careful._

_I'll get it done, I'll write it, but – diary, I'm wincing here. I'm going to end up writing a line of the letter, then writing to you about how nervous I feel about... whatever it is I end up writing._

_Here. Um. Before I write anything for it – _

Here, she taps the pen against her cheek, trying to think of how to phrase this next part.  
When she's got it, it's obvious from the way she shifts closer to the diary – and it's also obvious that it's not going to be as eloquent as she would have liked from the way she curls her hand into a fist to rest against her cheek.

_Look, I know we've moved beyond strict teacher-student conventions – I think it'd be like that even if, y'know, he hadn't kissed me - so no 'Professor Grabiner' to start (and 'sir' is right out). What do I start with, then?_

From this, she knows, she will get no response. She taps her pen against her cheek slowly, once, twice, three times, dragging it out. Finally, finally, she scrawls something on the paper covering the other page.

_Okay._  
_So._  
_..._  
_'Hieronymous' is how it starts, and I'm actually feeling a little bit relieved, but – oh, I am actually wincing here, diary, this is not hyperbole. I am berating myself mentally and I am very close to curling up into a ball and giving up on it altogether._

_I'm writing that… that I miss him, that everything is normal here, that I wonder what he's been doing and what he plans to do…_

_Yes. Okay. There. _  
_That's a start._  
_…I haven't really_ done_ anything yet, though, so I don't have much to write. I'll… wait a few days. _  
_Then I can fill it up with all the things I've done since I've seen him well, not everything, but he doesn't need to know how long I'm inevitably going to be lazing around and doing silly things like climbing trees and, um, also I'm maybe sort of contemplating how to look better in front of him. Yep._

_I'm done for now diary. Who knows how long I've been staring at these pages?_  
_Not me, that's for sure. _  
_I've really got to get to get on top of replacing the batteries in my clock. I shouldn't have left it running while I was away._

_-Illia_

With this written, she rolls onto her back with a sigh, staring up at her ceiling. If she doesn't want to spend her summer sighing and waiting, she's going to have to get much better at this.


	3. A Short Note

**_May 7th_**  
_Today, I have had a busy schedule filled with lounging on couches, re-reading books for the seventh time, walking around (the gas station convenience store was closed for absolutely no good reason today, and as far as I can tell, it's going to be like that all week), tree climbing (I don't think the neighbors appreciated my appropriation of their tree; I'll have to pay a visit to the park some time), and general lazing about._  
_It's been like this since Sunday._  
_I _really_ need to find something to occupy myself with. This is just sad._  
_And it looks like I won't have that long to wait._  
_Tomorrow morning, I'm going to be helping mom and dad to clear boxes out of the attic._  
_Apparently, Aunt Petrie and Uncle Andrew mailed over boxes of things ranging from when they were dating up until when we moved away, and my parents stowed everything up in the attic until they could sort through it._  
_Also, apparently we have an attic._

_-Illia_


End file.
